


Night of Fire - Duch

by thoseindarkness



Series: Gotham Short (Night of Fire) [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 09:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoseindarkness/pseuds/thoseindarkness
Summary: NOT RELATED TO THE "GOTHAM" SERIES ON NBCGotham is a strange place to live. Dangerous. Violent. Corrupt. Filled with colorful villains and dark heroes. Why would anyone live there? Well, why don't you ask them? Night of Fire tells the story of what happens to ordinary people when extraordinary things happen in Gotham.





	Night of Fire - Duch

_Like so many of her citizens, I have been touched by the depravity in Gotham. Unlike many of her citizens, she saved my life. She gave me purpose._

_I was born in Poland. Poor. My mother was a criminal. My father was a good man. I never understood how they ended up together. When the opportunity came to move to America my mother wanted it very badly. My father knew the price we would have to pay. He refused, so my mother had her brother murder him. I was fifteen. Old enough to make my own way. I would have rather died poor and honest in the old country than a slave in the new world but I went. I had to protect to my sister._

_We came to Gotham on a cargo ship. Snuck out onto the docks in Tricorner. The police were waiting for us. Them and the others. I had heard of them. Heroes. I had never seen one before. This one moved like darkness itself. The Batman. There was shouting. Then there was shooting. They shone bright lights on us. People ran. I tried to take my sister with me, but my mother ripped her from my arms._

_I knew where I was supposed to go to meet with the people who’d gotten me into the country. I avoided it at all costs. I was good at hiding. I lived on Her streets. Slept under Her bridges and in Her abandoned buildings. My third day in Gotham I saw the news footage from the incident in Tricorner. I did not speak the language but I knew what I was seeing. I saw my sister’s bright red hair and dirty yellow shoes covered by a bloody blanket. I’d seen enough death to know. They showed sketches of my mother, my uncle, the other men who greeted us at the docks._

_I know now they were looking for information. Using my sister’s death to draw sympathy. Seeing the police sketches of my family made me afraid. I wondered if they had my picture too. If they were looking for me. The police weren’t, but HE was. He knew who I was and what I might know. I have since learned that it was a feat to have hidden from him for so long. In the end, he is the world’s greatest detective and I was hiding in His city. He found me._

***

The Hero stood in silence, staring at the boy. It was frightening how still he was. A black gash in the dim light. The boy was scared to close his eyes, or blink, or look away. Afraid if he did the shadow would disappear. A door opened. A man with hair similar to his sisters and a bushy beard of the same color walked into the room. He wore the uniform of a police officer.

They argued. The Officer and The Hero. The boy didn’t need to understand the words to know what an argument looked like.

_“You’re safe here. We have no intention of harming you. We need your help.”_ The Hero said in the boy’s native tongue. He spoke Polish well. Like a native. A wealthy one. It made the boy even more uncomfortable.

The Officer said something. The Hero nodded.

_“Are you Kacper* Mazur?”_ The Hero asked. ***[A/N: pronounced Casper]**

The boy nodded.

_“We need your help Kacper. The police have your mother and uncle in custody…”_

The boy panicked and began to shout.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked. “What the hell is he saying?”

“He’s terrified.” Batman replied. “He doesn’t want to go back to the Nosek’s. He says they’re monsters. They’ll kill him for running.” His head whipped around to the boy. _“Co?”_ [1]

The boy continued to rant.

“He says they killed his father because he didn’t want them to come to this country. Jim, we can’t send this boy back to Poland. We’re asking him to help us then sentencing him to death.”

The boy watched, tears streaming down his face as the men talked. The Hero excused himself and they went into the other room. He could still hear them arguing. There were bars on the windows. He knew he wouldn’t be able to escape. Could feel it in his soul. Panic crept in. He took the bits of chalk out of his pocket and did the one thing that brought him any solace. He drew. If they were going to kill him then they wouldn’t mind if he defiled the floor.

First, he drew the Field Cathedral with bits of yellow and green. Then he drew the building he’d seen with all the gargoyles on it. He like that building. Then he drew the image that kept creeping into his mind every night. His sister. Under a blanket. He was so caught up he didn’t notice when The Hero slipped back into the room alone.

_“Kacper.”_

The boy looked up.

_“My friend and I. We want to help you. We can keep you safe from your family. We can hide you. Give you a good life here in this country, but there’s something we need you to do for us.”_ Even his mouth barely seemed to move when he spoke.

_“Will it avenge my sister?”_ Kacper asked.

_“You should know, we do not kill for revenge in this country. If you help us you will honor her memory.”_

The boy stared at the impossibly still figure in black and nodded.

***

_I testified in court to what my family had done. What they had been a part of in Poland. They in turn gave information to the state. Enough to save them from extradition. Keep them in clean, nice American prisons. My uncle died in one. My mother is still rotting in one. May God have mercy on her soul._

_The Americans made good on their promise. I was able to stay in this country. Eventually I became a naturalized citizen, though not for many years. I was an orphan. I lived in foster care until I was eighteen. I was placed in a specialized program given my lack of education, but it was enough that I was able to get into a college. Something I never would have dreamed of. I went to the Gotham Art Institute. I learned to paint._

_When I graduated I traveled North America seeing the rest of this new world. I thought it would be good for me to see other cities. They were what I loved to paint most. I saw many beautiful places during my travels. What was most curious to me was when I met new people and told them I was from Gotham. People congratulated me for getting out. For escaping the horror. For clawing my way out of the filth._

_The world is not kind to Gotham. She bleeds. She burns. She sacrifices her children. Yet the rest of the world looks to Her with cold eyes._

_After a time, I stopped telling people it was my intention to return. I grew tired of justifying it to strangers. Though my years there were few it was the first place I’d ever felt at peace. No one seemed to understand. She saved me. This strange city and Her protectors gave me a new life. Freedom. Self-determination. Opportunity. Education. Salvation. She was more mother to my young soul than the woman who birthed me had ever been._

_Throughout my travels I submitted my work to gallery showings. I started to build a name for myself. When I returned home, I had a new mission. I wanted to show the world Gotham as I saw Her. To capture the soul of the city. To show the world the beauty it failed to notice. I took on a new name. Many had made jokes of my name. Showed me the cartoon of the little ghost. In Polish, the word_ “duch” _can mean ghost, but it can also mean soul, spirit. I wanted to embody the spirit of a city so I became Duch._

_I built a career out of transformation. Warping perception. Showing others the beauty in Her shadows. People paid well for the paintings of the Dark Knight or his young soldiers. Many times, I did charity work. Donating paintings at auction to raise money for public works, youth outreach programs, emergency aid. The things that allowed me to stay, survive and thrive in Her arms._

_The night of the fire I was at the top of the Wayne Enterprises building. I had done some work for Mr. Wayne before. I was surprised to learn that his son was a fan of my paintings and from what I’d seen an artist of great skill. I was asked to paint a panoramic of Gotham. Wayne Tower allowed me to see her from the south to the north. I chose to paint her at night, for she truly comes alive in the darkness._

_The moment I saw the smoke I knew she would bleed that night. When the explosion came I knew I had to help her. I know only one way to do this. I made a record. Captured a moment in time. My beloved Gotham crying out in agony. Her people weeping. Her streets burning. Please do not think me crass or strange. There is a method to my madness. Every emergency requires funding. People pay good money to watch my love bleed. I would take their money and give it back to Her. Which is what I did._

***

“Thank you again Mr. Mazur.” Bruce said.

“Please, there is no need for thanks. She cried out for help and I answered Her call in my own way.” Duch said. His eyes wandered to the serious boy a few feet away.

“Forgive my son. He’s more interested in art than people sometimes.” Bruce chuckled. “I hope he hasn’t been too critical with you.”

Duch smiled. “Damian has a gift. I do not find him critical. Only challenging.”

“That’s one word.” Bruce smiled.

“Your son loves this city as I do.” Duch said. “You should be proud of that. He will take care of her. That is a great legacy.”

“Of that I’m certain.” Bruce nodded solemnly. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Damian stared at the image in front of him in harsh reds and coppers. He sensed the older man come up behind him.

“The names are excellent touch.” Damian said. “Evocative.”

“That was my hope.” Duch replied.

“Shame really. Most people won’t bother looking at them.” Damian spat.

Duch chuckled. “One of my instructors at the Art Institute took us to a gallery in Metropolis. The artist liked to draw grotesque images. Shocking. Horrifying paintings. We walked the whole gallery. At the end, he asked us what the names of the paintings were. Only three students of twenty paid them any attention. I’m not ashamed to admit, I was not one of them. He told us, we are the masters of our domain. We communicate in a visual medium but if we want to send a message we must learn to express it with words as well.”

“Force people to see, then?” Damian asked.

“I can no more force people to see the words as I can to see the meaning in the brush strokes.” Duch shook his head. “All I can do is bring it to their attention. It is for them to see.”

Damian nodded.

“Were there any that you were drawn to?” Duch asked. “Any that captured your attention.”

“Are you trying to sell me?” Damian’s lip twitched upward.

“Is that even necessary anymore?” Duch raised an eyebrow.

“Hardly.” Damian grinned. “I can’t buy them all though. Father wouldn’t be very happy with me if I tried.”

“Then you have enjoyed the collection?” Duch asked.

“Very much, yes. Though I haven’t seen the panoramic anywhere. I was looking forward to seeing it most.” Damian asked.

“Ah. I was saving that for the opening, but perhaps a sneak preview. Come.”

They wended their way through the gallery. There were twenty-six pieces on display in the gallery. All for sale. Proceeds to go to the Survivors Fund. They chatted as they passed about the feelings, the names, the inspiration, the brushes used, the techniques. In the rear of the gallery was a thick curtain with a sign barring entry. 

Duch pulled back the curtain and waved Damian in. Hanging from the ceiling where two rings of paintings. The canvases were enormous. At least twelve feet tall by eight feet wide. The images were facing the center of the circle. They were spaced far enough apart that you could walk between them.

“Please, step into the center.” Duch said.

Damian stepped into the gap between the inner and outer circle, finding a path into the center of the room. There it was. The panorama. A full three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the Gotham Skyline on the night of the burning. It was breathtaking. The inner ring served as the main focus while the outer ring created a sense of depth. It was a seamless transition. Expertly done.

The southern island was placid, calm. Painted in cool tones and white, cold light. The northern island was chaos. Painted in warm tones and orange, hot light. Even over the water the colors bled from bright to dark. A mirror image. It was in the water where Damian saw it. The hallmark of Duch’s paintings. More an identification of his work than his signature. The bat symbol. It was hidden in every one of his Gotham pieces. Some so well that entire websites were dedicated to finding them. Damian had found every one. He knew what to look for or rather where to look. It was easy really.

“Why do you do it?” Damian asked. He knew he would have to explain.

“I was wondering when you would ask.” Duch said. “Do you not know?”

“I know what I feel, what I see.” Damian took a step toward the shadow on the water. It stretched across three canvases a barely distinguishable shape cast in flame, smoke, shadow, wave cap, building silhouette and light reflection. “Why do you see him?”

“I paint Gotham. Paint Her soul. How could I do that without him? He is as much a part of Her as She is him. They are linked. Husband and wife. City and protector. He is in every shadow so I place him there where he belongs.”

“Will you sell these as a set?” Damian asked.

“Perhaps. These will be auctioned silently before the main event tonight. Whichever price is higher, together or separate. I fear they will be broken up tonight. It is for a worthy cause. If that is Her will, then so be it.”

“It would be a crime.” Damian frowned deeply.

“Ah, but Gotham is so accustomed to crime.” Duch chuckled softly. “I do not think She will notice.”

***

_Young Damian spent the night wandering the gallery. Shortly before the open auction I found him with the panorama. I called the set Harmony for I felt it was the embodiment of her balance. The bridge between peace and chaos._

_When the time for auction came I set a new record. I had seen many images of people on their roofs. Businesses and homes alike. One helicopter flew through Midtown, down Empire and Middle Street where the highway is below ground. People dotted the skyline watching the fire. I called it Vigilant. A play on words. If you look closely you can see the costumed heroes standing among the common people. I put the Batgirl on a motorcycle to amuse myself. It sold for one point one million._

_At the end of the night they announced the bids on the aspects of Harmony. To make it easy they had been labeled A to P as they shared the same lot number. They enhanced the drama by reading the bids from lowest to highest. The highest sold for nearly nine hundred thousand. The lowest for one hundred eighty thousand. All together the pieces generated nine point six million dollars nearly doubling what we’d raised that night._

_I should have known better than to think that would be the end of it. The auctioneer waited for the applause to settle before announcing that the lot, in its entirety, had a single bid of ten million. The only offer made on the set. The winner of the auction… do you not know?_

***

Flash bulbs erupted from every direction as patrons exited the auction house. Reporters called out names of the wealthy and famous Gothamites hoping for a quote or sound bite.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce stopped, his son a breath behind him.

“Sally Lowell, Diamond Times. You bid of three pieces tonight, why those pieces?”

“I only bid on two.” Bruce corrected. “The one of downtown it was very…” he paused “blue. I liked it. Thought it would look good in my study. The other was of my building. How could I not? Right?” He chuckled.

“Mr. Wayne. Kelly Greer, Gotham Gazette.”

“Hey Kelly, how are you? It’s been a dogs age. You look gorgeous.”

She blushed. “Thanks Br… Mr. Wayne. The big surprise of the night was the Harmony piece. What are you planning for that?”

“That wasn’t me.” He shrugged. “My son’s the art fan. It’s his money.”

The boy put an arm on his father’s shoulder. Bruce nodded.

“Something far more important than raising money happened here tonight.” Damian began. A dozen reporters huddled around the normally elusive boy. A quote from him could mean a byline. “In the aftermath of a crisis one man used his platform to do more then sell paintings. He gave Gotham a voice. I challenge each of you to go back in there. Look at the names on those paintings. Faith. Solidarity. Hope. Sacrifice. Loss. Forgiveness. Strength. Look at more than the images. See what they mean. We saw Gotham through the artists eyes tonight. Not as the world sees us, a place of fear, chaos violence. Instead he portrays a place of hope, inspiration, and change. He took pain and turned it into beauty.

“We could all be so lucky to see even a small corner of the world like ours though Duch’s eyes. Yes, Gotham is a dangerous place, but men need to be tested. A man can only rise when he has fallen. He can only overcome when he is challenged. He can only be brave when his is afraid. It is through our trials that we gain strength. Gotham is the strongest city in the world because we are tested and tested and tested again and we do not break. We will never break. That is the true beauty of Gotham. Excuse me.”

Damian took a step back. A choir of reporters shouting follow-up questions as he ascended the stairs back to the entrance and the man standing near the door.

“That was an impassioned speech my young friend. I’m honored.” Duch smiled.

“Don’t be.” Damian cocked an eyebrow. “I was honoring Gotham. I was challenging you.”

“Of course. Then I will have to rise to the occasion.” Duch said.

“We both will.” Damian held his hand out, Duch shook it. “I spoke to the curator at the Museum. When the gallery closes the pieces will be moved there in the memorials wing. He wants to speak to you about the best way to display them long term.”

Duch’s eyes widened. “That truly is an honor.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Damian smiled.

***

_Harmony did not go to the Gotham Museum of Natural History right away. I traveled with it first. Took it all over the world. I showed them all what Gotham means to those of us who called her home. We played young Damian’s that speech at every showing. When the piece finally came home it was arranged as it had been before. At the top of a special platform where patrons of the Museum could take in the view uninterrupted. The Wayne family paid for the renovation._

_In the years Harmony has been there I have met many people who’ve come to see it. It is my greatest joy to know that locals and visitors alike have found the beauty in Gotham. It’s true beauty. Not in a painting. A still frame of a single night as seen through the lens of one man’s eyes. No. Atop the viewing platform I hear strangers share their stories of Gotham. Of the place they call home. The place they fell in love with. The place where they were broken and rebuilt. They place that stole from them, then gave back in kind. The place that made them better than they were yesterday. We carry Her with us. In our minds. In our hearts. On our lips. We honor her._

_Gotham lives in each of us._

**Author's Note:**

>  **[1] “Co?” | Literal translation: “What?”**  
>  In Polish.


End file.
